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A BIT OF WAR^- VERSE 

BY 

ADA BOYD GLASSIE 



Copyright 1917, 



T I K 



S=3ESEEL ~r I E 



5E 



JAN -2 1918 



©GJ.A479795 



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j^ > CTO TO HER SON 



~ ' THE AMERICAN MOTHER 



Put by your sports, my sou, — 
Foes menace our fair shore ; 

Do as your sires have done, — 
Prepare for war. 

Mine are but petty needs, 
Mine but one single hearth — 

Our Country's honor bleeds, 
And stains the earth. 

When God gave you to me, 
I took no count of fate — 

A man, I deemed, should be 
For labors great. 

In this belief I wrought 

To make your strength complete, 
Body and mind I taught 

Their Call to meet. 

Would I have you 'bide here 

Beside my mother-knee, 
Lest / should shed a tear? — 

Tt must not be. 

Our Country's best you claim, 
The ideals with her grown, — 

Law, freedom, a fair name — 
All are your own. 

And you?— full well she knows 
Will give back worth for worth. 

"Go, for her life-blood flows 
And stains the earth. 



TO BELGIUM 



Out of the dust, Belgium, shall thou arise; 
Out of the dust of sorrow, not of shame ; 
Lifting thy spires again unto the skies, 
Lifting again, thy fair, untarnished name. 
Gathered around thee, shall the nations gaze 
Upward — not downward, while their voices 

blend, 
A re-united chorus, in thy praise, — 
Thou, who no selfish weal from right could 

bend. 
Stricken? — Yea, but not crushed. Hold then 

this true, 
Peoples act only as their ideals are, 
And time records them by the deeds they do, 
And God in His justice reaches wide and far. 

God in His justice? — Belgium, thou shalt 
stand 

Forth from this wreck of war a greater 
land. 



"THE HINDENBURG LINE' 
(A Vision) 



Why are we at war? 

Mother, oh why? 

Child, we have heard the wail 

Of babes and sucklings hurled into the deep 

From shattered ships; 

Out of that murk ere dawn 

Heard, too, the cry 

Of mothers struggling, struggling yet to keep 

Their human treasure from the sharks which 

yawn, ' 
And gape, and throng beneath. 
Out of the pitchy blackness words have sprung 
From true men's lips 
Such as no man should breathe, 
As they and theirs, unwarned were flung 
From shattered ships, 
And headlong plunged into the sea, 
Down, down, down, to be 
The feast of slimy things. 
This is the fearful tale, 
And fills the soul with shudderings ; 
But, Mother, can't they cease 
These barbarous deeds, so that no more 
Nations need go to war? 
Might we not live at peace?— 
Mother, tell me true. 
Child, it may not do; 
For the world has heard 
A prophetic word 
From men who, dreaming, see 
Things as they would have them be. 
And this is what it means to you and me,— 
Out of their land a Line goes forth ; 
It reaches South, and it reaches North; 



Oi iron rings with steel-wrought clamps, 

It gouges, and it stamps, 

Crushing the heart, 

Heedless of blood, heedless of pain. 

Through Belgium, Serbia, the Dardanelles, 

It grinds and quells. 

From North, from South, it drags and binds 

All creeds and kinds. 

Onward its black links run, 

To the land of the rising sun; 

.fast, to the great, calm main; 

Grinding the Pacific's floor, 

Crushing onward more and more, 

Reaching the New World's shore. 

From South, from North, it drags and binds 

All creeds and kinds. 

Circling the mind, circling the soul, 

Onward its black links roll; 
With steel-wrought clamps, 

It gouges and it stamps, 

Crushing the heart, 

Heedless of blood, heedless of pain ; 

Doing its part 

To stifle and to slay 

AH that is fine, all that are free. 

Onward again 

It grinds to the sea. 

Through the Atlantic it blackens along; 

O'er the British Isles — home of the strong, 

It harries its way; 

From North, from South, it drags and binds 

All creeds and kinds. 

Surging the waves again 

Back to the land whence it sprung. 

Out of its mire and dung, — 

Out of the Prussian Brain. 

Mother, if such is the word 

The world has heard 



From those men who, dreaming see 

Things as they would have them be, — 

Their dream we must rend 

From end to end 

As a storm of the deep rends a sail. — 

Their Iron Chain shall fail. 

Though we- must fight — and though we die, 

O, Mother, what care we? — 

If but the earth lives free? 



" KULTUR " 



Mother, what ails the earth? 

Why do the great cathedrals crumble so? 

Why do the people wander to and fro, 

And weep, and starve, and die? 

Mother, why, oh, why 

Are there such meagre fields for men to till? 

Why do the soldiers roam about at will, 

And burn, and kill? 

Where are the happy homes that used to be 

A gladsome sight to see? 

Why do the bayonets gleam on every street? 

Why do the drums forever roll and beat? 

I see no houses where our books were kept, — 

Those eyes of knowledge that have never 
slept, 

But keener grown, 

Until they almost fathomed the Unknown. 

I see no countenance alight with mirth; — 

Mother, what ails the Earth? 

It is The KULTUR, child, O pray 
For God to save you while He may. 



Mother, what ails the Sea? 

Where are those ships that rode it swift and 

free? 
Look, mother, what are they? 
Those are not fish and porpoises at their 

play— 
Ah no, those are dead babes. And yonder, 

too — 
Why they were, maybe, mothers just like you. 
O, is it true? 
And closer into shore, 
Still more, and more, 
But these were brave, true men ; see there ! 

see there ! 



The weeds have almost grown on them like 
hair! 

Why is the Ocean filled with dead folk so? 

There must be many vessels sunk below. 
It is The KU>LTUR, child, O pray 
For God to save you while He may. 



Mother, what is that Thing 

Hovering in the air. 
With dir and awful wing? 

Mother, where, oh ! where 
Is the warm, shining sun? 

Can That be only clouds? — 
What have the Heavens done 

To brood in such black shrouds? 
The Sea grows foul and drear, 

The Earth begins to fade — 
Hide me, O mother dear, 

I am afraid ! afraid ! 
It is The KULTUR, child, O pray 
For God to save you while He may. 



THE U-BOAT 



Under the wave ; 

Long, low, and sinister, 

Fuming it breathes, 

Swiftly to 'minister 

The death-dealing sting. 

It is a Thing. 

Gorged with dead humankind, 

Reeking and murder-blind, 

Onward it seethes. 

Who on the Ocean knows 

Whither or whence it goes, 

Where it will strike? 

What it is like? 

Nothing that God ever made, 

Scarce has the fiend essayed 

Such tool to crave. 

Under the wave, 

Onward it seethes ; 

Long, low. and sinister 

Fuming it breathes, 

Swiftly to minister 

The death-dealing sting. 

It is Man's Thing. 

Who on the Ocean dares 

Offer it prayers? 



SERVICE 



What is it I hold for thee, 

Land of my birth? — 
Love? — Yea, but that love must be 

Proved in my worth. 

A year? — or a day? — who knows? 

Perhaps an hour. 
No matter, if it but shows 
My worth's full pow*r. 

What can I bear for thy sake? 

What can I give? — 
Must thou all my dear ones take, 

And have me live? 

Or, is it myself must be 

Torn by war's shell? — 
Blind, halt, — whatever to thee 

May seemeth well. 

O, Country of mine, I ask 

What is thy will?— 
I am ready! — let the task 

My love fulfill. 

—Ada Boyd Glassie. 
Historian, Col. John Donelson Ch., D. A. R. 



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